


Mercy of the Dragon Queen

by Whedonista93



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:00:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93
Summary: By the custom of Meereen, for a noble to pardon an accused, they must stand with them in marriage.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 29
Kudos: 183





	Mercy of the Dragon Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Fast and loose with both timeline and canon:  
> Dany never left Meereen - she remained there and continued ruling as queen.  
> Sansa still became Queen of the North.  
> Sandor didn’t stay with the Silent Brothers - basically healed up and became something like a sellsword, making his way North, eventually all the way to Winterfell, where he joined the queen’s guard.
> 
> And, per usual, thank you to the bestest beta ever!
> 
> aggiepuff

Daenerys looks down from her throne. “He stands accused. Will anyone stand with him?”

Sansa leans to her right, toward a lovely young woman who had introduced herself upon Sansa’s arrival as Natil. “What does she mean stand with him?”

Natil leans close. “If a noble stands with an accused, and the accused swears fealty to the noble, the accused will be freed to the noble.”

“What’s the catch?”

“If it is later proven, without a doubt, that the accused was guilty, the accused and the noble will both serve the sentence,” Natil answers. Sansa steps forward and Natil lunges, trying and failing to snag Sansa’s sleeve. “Wai-”

Sansa continues forward with as much confidence as she can muster. “I will stand with him.”

The queen raises an eyebrow. “You are certain?”

She ignores the Hound’s frantic eyes and subtle head shake and nods. “I am certain.”

The queen nods and turns to the nearest clergy. “Ready the ceremony.”

The clergy bows and retreats.

Sansa turns back to her new friend. “Ceremony?”

Natil huffs a frustrated breath. “I was  _ trying _ to tell you. To pardon an accused you must stand with them in  _ marriage.  _ They must swear fealty to you in marriage.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not too late to take it back,” Natil offers. “You are a foreigner. Unfamiliar with our ways. No one would fault you.”

“No,” Sansa shakes her head. “I shall proceed.”

Natil frowns. “The Hound’s reputation has reached us even here, my lady. He is a hard man, a dangerous man. He is-”

“My friend,” Sansa interrupts. “Or something like that. He has saved my life countless times, and if I can repay him even just this once, I shall.”

“With your life?”

“It is the least I owe him.”

“Are you mad?” Sandor roars when she is brought to his cell. “Take it back!”

Sansa crosses her arms. “And let you die?! No.”

He runs his hands over his head, tugging at his hair in frustration. “Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

Sansa frowns. “If you have an objection to marrying me, just say so and we’ll run now, but I like these people and I’d rather not burn that bridge if I don’t have to.”

“Do yo-” Sandor cuts himself off. “Wait. You  _ do _ know what this act consists of.”

“Marrying you?” Sansa nods. “Yes. I can think of far worse fates, but I will not force you.”

“My lady, your people will-”

“Get over it. My land is my own and I am not in line for any throne. Who I marry, should I choose a king, a cobbler, or a soldier, is just that -  _ my choice.  _ But as I said, I will not force you. Upon my word, you will leave this place alive either way.”

He shakes his head. “You should just let them take my head.”

“Did you do it?”

“No.”

Sansa nods decisively. “Then they shan’t have your head.”

“What if I said I did?”

She shrugs. “They shan’t have your head either way. As I have said, if you are opposed to marrying me, we will escape by other means.”

“Opposed to… what in the-”

It takes a considerable amount of Sansa’s willpower not to pout. “Well you’re certainly objecting enough.”

“Because you could do better than me!” He bursts, hands banging against the bars. 

She finally softens. “I can do better than someone who has saved my life so many times I cannot count? Better than someone who nearly froze to death on the journey here simply because he did not want to see me in discomfort? Better than someone who had no obligation to me defending my lands from pillagers when I was away, then trying to intimidate my people into silence over it when I returned? I receive suits from men of all ranks  _ every _ day, Sandor Clegane. I could marry a king or a beggar boy, if I wanted. I want someone who cares for me beyond my land and titles, and respects me as an equal.”

“Equal? My lady, you are far and away my superior.”

Sansa scrunches her nose.

“What, little bird?”

She smiles. “That. ‘My lady’ sounds awfully strange coming from you.”

He shrugs. “Fair certain it should be ‘your grace’ if I were a proper type.”

“Proper types are boring.”

“I would think you’d had enough excitement for a lifetime.”

Sansa shrugs. “Of certain kinds, but not all excitement is bad.”

A tense silence falls.

Sansa reaches out to wrap one of her hands around his, where it still rests against the bars, and when she speaks again, it’s so quiet Sandor can barely hear her. “Tell me, honestly, you do not wish to marry me.”

His head comes down to rest against the bars. “I cannot.”

A throat clears behind Sansa and she turns her head to find Tyrion. “May I help you, my lord?”

Tyrion dips his chin in casual bow. “A word, if you don’t mind, your grace?”

Sansa squeezes Sandor’s hand and steps away from the cell, into another corridor with Tyrion, who nods to a guard to pull the door closed behind them. “The queen is requesting your presence.”

Sansa nods, but raises an eyebrow. “She could have sent anyone to fetch me, my lord.”

Tyrion nods. “Aye, she could have.” Tyrion chuckles mirthlessly. “I serve the queen, and I like to think I do so with honor, but… well, there are… allegiances that predate my service to the queen.”

“Lord Tyrion, please speak plainly.”

He smirks up at her. “My apologies. That is rarely my forte. I am seeking the source of the information, but your previous marriages were somehow brought to the queen’s attention.”

Sansa freezes in her tracks and all but collapses against the nearest wall.

Tyrion winces. “Forgive my bluntness, your grace, but I did not think it fair of you to walk into this meeting unprepared.”

Sansa slides down the wall and drags her knees up to her chest, absently praying that no one passes to see her in such an unseemly position. “What does she want from me?”

Tyrion hesitantly reaches out and unpries her hands from her knees, holding them loosely. “Do not assume the worst, your grace, I-”

“Sansa.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sansa, please call me Sansa, my lord. After all we have… you have always been kind to me.”

Tyrion nods. “Sansa, then. The queen  _ will _ likely question you on the validity, shall we call it? The validity of these marriages. I know it will be difficult to address, my dear, but be honest with her. I have every reason to believe our marriage is the only truly legitimate marriage in your history, and I promise you that I shall do whatever I must to ensure you are fully released from it.”

Sansa releases a shaky breath and nods. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Tyrion, Sansa. It’s just Tyrion.”

Sansa squeezes Tyrion’s hands once, gently, then forces herself to her feet, and they continue the ascent to Daenerys’ chambers side by side.

The dragon queen is standing on the balcony, idly observing the city when they enter.

Tyrion clears his throat. “Queen Sansa, as requested, your grace.”

Daenerys turns with a smile. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion. You may leave us.”

Tyrion shuffles uncomfortably before standing up straight. “If it all the same to you, your grace, I believe I should stay.”

Daenerys raises an eyebrow, but turns to Sansa.

Sansa nods at the unspoken question. “I would very much like him to stay, your grace, if it pleases you.”

The queen shrugs elegantly. “It makes no difference to me.” She gestures to the table. “Join me?”

Tyrion pulls a chair out and Sansa sinks into it gratefully. She’s equally grateful when he sits beside her instead of moving to Daenerys’ side. Daenerys’ expression makes it clear she notices the gesture, and its significance, but she doesn’t comment.

“How can I be of service, your grace?” Sansa asks.

“You understand what you volunteered, with the Hound?” Daenerys asks.

“I do,” Sansa confirms.

“I will not dissuade you from it, because I believe a person’s will is their own. However…”

Sansa remains silent, unwilling to show any hesitance toward her course of action.

Daenerys sighs. “I shall be straightforward with you, and I will beg your forgiveness if it comes across too harshly. The Hound is a formidable man with quite the reputation, your grace. I will not be responsible for releasing him under less than lawful circumstances and your previous attachments have been brought to my attention.”

Tyrion settles against the back of his chair. “You refer to Sansa’s marriage to me.”

Daenerys hides her surprise well, but not entirely. “You don’t deny it then?”

Tyrion shrugs. “Why should I? It is the truth.”

“And her marriage to Lord Bolton?”

Sansa shudders and Tyrion rests his hand over hers in quiet reassurance. “Her marriage to that bastard was forced against her will when she was technically still my wife.”

“How is this possible?”

“My marriage to Tyrion was never consummated, your grace,” Sansa mutters, blushing.

Daenerys sighs. “I admit I am at a loss. Your marriages are not common knowledge among my people, but if they came to light and I had allowed you to pledge to the Hound…”

“If I might, your grace?” Tyrion asks.

Daenerys waves a hand for him to continue.

“If your desire is simply to assure this remains within legally binding bounds… Ramsay Bolton is dead, so let us not even consider him. My marriage to Sansa was binding, probably technically still is, but, as we have established, was never consummated. That being said, there are grounds for an annulment. I can think of far worse people to be married to, your grace, but neither of us chose this marriage.”

Daenerys tilts her head, curiosity shining in her eyes. “You would release her, just like that? She is a queen, after all.”

“I already serve a queen, your grace, and I have no desire to be a king.”

Daenerys stares at the pair of them for a long moment before nodding. “Very well. On the basis that you release Queen Sansa, Lord Tyrion, the ceremony shall proceed.”

Tyrion nods and squeezes Sansa’s hand, where his still rests over hers. “I release her.”

“You may return to your chambers, Queen Sansa, to prepare for the ceremony.”

Sansa inclines her head. “My thanks, Queen Daenerys.”

“Unless you have further need of me, your grace, I should like to escort Sansa back to her chambers.”

Daenerys nods and waves them both away.

“That was bold of you,” Sansa says when they’re nearly to her chambers, “to stand by my side before your queen.”

Tyrion shrugs. “I believe in Daenerys, and I serve her willingly.”

Sansa tilts her head. “But?”

Tyrion grins wryly and speaks quietly. “Though they are very few, I do have loyalties that stand above even my queen.”

Sansa nods slowly. “Thank you, Tyrion. For everything.”

Tyrion nods and offers a hand. “Friends?”

Sansa smiles and drops to her knees to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “Friends.”

Tyrion hesitantly wraps his arms around her middle. “Thank you.”

She pulls back and stands with another smile. “Should you ever tire of Meereen, the gates of Winterfell shall always be open to you.”

Tyrion nods. “I shall keep that in mind.” He shoves her lightly down the hall. “Now, I believe you have a ceremony to prepare for. I’ll see what I can do about getting a bath and some clothes that don’t smell like horse for your intended, hm?”

Sansa laughs. “Thank you. Again.”

Sandor is immediately angry with himself for being surprised when guards come for him. Of course the little bird would change her mind. He should have expected as much.

A familiar snort draws his attention to Tyrion leaning in the doorway behind the guards. “Wipe that look off your face, Clegane,” the imp drawls. “Fucked if I know why, but the woman actually  _ wants _ to marry you. I figured it was the least I could do to make sure you don’t smell as though you’ve just bathed in horse shit when she does. Come along.”

More surprises - the guards open his cell door. And then just walk away. He raises an eyebrow.

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “I am Hand of the Queen, Clegane. If I tell the guards to leave you be, they will do so.”

“Why?”

Tyrion stops and turns to look at him. “Because we both know it’s Sansa’s head on the chopping block if you run on your own. Just as we both know you would never abandon her to such a fate.”

“Fuck your assumptions, imp.”

Tyrion raises a brow. “Am I wrong?”

Sandor deflates just enough to shake his head.

“I thought not. Let’s see if we can’t make you presentable for your bride… well, as presentable as one such as yourself can get.”

Sandor growls, but follows along to a room dominated by a steaming tub. Tyrion settles in a chair and Sandor shrugs and strips, barely biting back the satisfied groan when he sinks into hot water. He resists the urge to relax in the water and sets about scrubbing himself down. Tyrion silently points him to the clothes laid over a nearby chair when he steps out of the tub.

Sandor gives the dwarf a dubious look.

Tyrion shrugs. “I found one of the queen’s Unsullied who was nearly as big of a fucker as you are and dragged him to a tailor. Trousers may be a bit tight, but they should do. You’ll have to wear your own boots.”

A knock on the door cuts off whatever scathing reply was on the top of Sandor’s tongue.

“Come in,” Tyrion calls.

One of the Unsullied opens the door and holds out a bundle of fabric with a piece of parchment pinned to the top. “For the Hound, with Queen Sansa’s regards.”

Tyrion waves him away.

Sandor eyes the bundle as if it were a snake.

“Well?” Tyrion asks. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Sandor sneers at him as he finishes tugging up the - too tight, as Tyrion predicted - trousers, then strides over and plucks the parchment off the top of the bundle.

_ Sandor, _

_ I hope you’ll forgive me for keeping this all these years, but it holds the memory of one of the few kindnesses spared to me during my time in King’s Landing. _

_ I know you serve no gods, and our ceremony will be in accordance with the beliefs of Meereen, but, if you would indulge me, Queen Daenerys has allowed that a cloaking may be integrated into the ceremony. _

_ Yours, _

_ Sansa _

“Well?” Tyrion asks.

Sandor flicks the parchment at him and reaches for the bundle, unfurling his old white cloak, clean and mended, and displaying an intricate embroidery. Sandor can’t help but stare at the three black dogs of his house protectively circling a gray direwolf.

Tyrion snickers.

Sandor glares over the top of the cloak. “What?”

“‘If you would indulge me,’” Tyrion quotes. “As if you could deny her anything.”

Sandor glares and sets the cloak down almost reverently on the table.

Tyrion’s eyes widen. “It makes one wonder exactly how long the girl has wanted to marry you, Clegane.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Tyrion smirks, though not unkindly. “It’s been mere hours since our dear Sansa threw herself on the metaphorical chopping block for your sake. That particular bit of creativity,” he nods toward the cloak, “had to have taken her far longer than that.”

Sandor pauses from shoving his tunic into his trousers and looks at the cloak again. “Aye. I suppose it would have.”

Tyrion snickers. “A word of advice, my friend? You probably should not let many see how soft the woman makes you.”

Sandor snarls at him.

Tyrion grins. “There’s a good man.” A bell tolls in the distance. “And that’s our queue. Let’s go get you married off, shall we?”

Sandor shoves his feet into his boots and swings the cloak around his shoulders.

Tyrion, mercifully, remains silent all the way to the throne room. More mercifully yet, he simply smirks in lieu of comment when Sandor trips over his own feet at the sight of Sansa. The dress she’s in is more Daenerys’ style - a light blue that brings out her eyes, and open-backed with a plunging neckline and a flowing skirt - but damned to the hells if it doesn’t make his already too tight trousers even tighter, and her hair is flowing down her back, mostly loose in a way that makes his fingers itch to run through it - the closest he’ll likely ever get to fire again.

She looks calm and composed, but he can see the tension in the way she’s holding her shoulders. Something warm unfurls in his gut when she spots him and her eyes soften and some of that tension bleeds away.

He struggles to focus on the ceremony.

Sansa seems to be struggling as well. She leans into his side and dips her chin, able to whisper low, unseen by the crowd behind them. “I’m sorry.”

He gapes down at her. “What in the fucking hells are you sorry for, little bird?”

She tilts her head up at him. “You told me once that you refused to take any vows to anyone, and I am making you break that.”

He shakes his head ruefully. “Sansa, I would break that refusal for but a smile from you.”

Predictably, Sansa smiles up at him.

“Aye, little bird, that very one.”

“That’s the first time you have called me by my name.”

“And the first you called me by mine was as you all but demanded I marry you.”


End file.
